A Finer Education
by zoophagous
Summary: School AU, Mr John Watson is the new Chemistry teacher at King's College, a recent dropout of med school and barely qualified to teach at age 23. Sherlock Holmes is in his final year at school and catches John's eye. Definitely against the rules.
1. Until MidOctober

"Alright, settle down guys and girls. I know: first day of term and whatnot," a shy smile spread across the short man's face, trying to calm down his class without looking like a complete prick, "but we have work to do, okay?" Mr. Watson's grin widened, "I am Mister Watson, your new-"

"-Chemistry teacher; obviously. Save your breath." A low voice groaned uninterestedly.

Watson's smile faltered briefly, _God, that's a little harsh,_ before looking at the boy who had tried so casually to embarrass him on his _first day_. "Yes, well, formalities are formalities. Aren't they, Mister…?" He tried to keep his voice strong and yet kind, but he was a little resentful of this arrogant boy. He mentally sighed, _this is going to be a long year_.

"Holmes." The boy droned, bored, and rolled his eyes underneath a thick mop of dark curls. Watson couldn't make out much from this boy; tall with terrible posture, very pale (almost unhealthily) and he wore a tightly fitted black suit that clung suffocatingly to the boy's emaciated limbs. The thinness of Holmes genuinely concerned Mr. Watson. He clearly didn't eat enough -but was definitely far too confident for it to be because he was _self conscious_; his cheekbones protruded out of his face like a skeleton's would, and where one of his buttons had been left open, Watson could see collar bones tearing out of his translucent skin.

His face was shadowy and unclear -so many contours and so much hidden by his big (and somehow elegant) mop. Each curl seemed perfectly formed and it was almost as if he had spent hours in front of his mirror, coaxing his hair with curlers and hair spray, just to look perfect. Although he obviously didn't. His eyes were deeply imbedded into his skull and was outlined with dark rings and pale blue veins creeping out over his temples, making his piercing grey eyes stand out all-the-more. Despite every flaw on his face (and yes, there were certainly many) this boy was strangely attractive; so feline and _raw._

"Right, well, Mister Holmes, I would appreciate it if you refrained from making any other unnecessary or sarcastic remarks in my lessons." He sighed out-loud this time. "Good morning 13A." The polite smile briefly returned, but he knew he wasn't tricking anyone.

"Good morning Mister Watson." The class chorused, out of time, falling back onto their chairs. He slumped back into his own; _definitely going to be a long year._

* * *

><p>"So how was your first double today?" Miss Morstan -Mary, she had insisted he called her- said cheerily, blowing into the tea cup that rested on her lips. Mr. Watson didn't want to call her <em>Mary<em>; he didn't really approve of her and he certainly didn't approve of her flirting. He had Sarah, his wonderful and stable girlfriend of three years. He didn't like _Miss Morstan_'s slightly-above-regulation-length-skirt and slightly-below-regulation-cut-shirt and he felt considerably violated when she had tried to "nonchalantly" brush up against the side of his body this morning in assembly.

"Oh, er, it was alright thanks. The class seems like a good sort and definitely bright." He hoped that his voice sounded uninterested enough that she'd get the message and _go away. _But of course she was far to persistent.

"I saw that you have _Freak_ in your class. I assume he tried to embarrass you the moment he saw you; probably couldn't resist such a _victim._" She chuckled and he was definitely a little (or maybe a bit more that 'a little') offended_._

"Who's 'Freak'? And I really don't think it's professional to be giving students such nicknames." Watson tried to sound calm, but it snapped out a bit harsher than he had expected and she recoiled slightly at the ferocity. "And I'm not a _victim."_ He grimaced at the word.

Yes, John Hamish Watson was short and wore baggy oatmeal jumpers, and yes, he tried to be nice and friendly to everyone he met, and yes, he had dropped out of med school early because he couldn't deal with the stress and _yes, _he was only 23 (barely qualified to be a teacher!) but he wasn't a victim and certainly didn't want someone such as Miss Morstan thinking of him as one.

"Oh, sorry," she wasn't sorry, if anything, she was bitter, "and calm down John, everyone calls him Freak. Even the kids. His real name is Sherlock Holmes and he's a proper creeper; nobody likes Freak." She tussled her overly-dyed and overly-perfumed hair and sniggered. God, it wasn't even attractive!

"_Holmes_ made one comment at the beginning of the lesson and then didn't look up from his book for the rest of it." His voice picked up slightly with anger, "Look, he's rude and I'm not exactly a massive fan of his, but we're professionals and I expect you to act accordingly, Miss Morstan." He snapped and pulled away from the staff desk pointedly, turned his back on the 'teacher' and strode out of the staff room. _Fucking ridiculous. I thought teachers were supposed to be adults._

* * *

><p>The next few weeks went by uneventfully. The days were long and boring and nothing happened. Miss Morstan had finally left him alone, although it hadn't escaped his notice that she frequently spoke badly badly of him to Mr. Moriarty, the ethics and psychology teacher, in hushed tones over 'tea-quila'.<p>

But Watson had made a couple of colleagues and they were well meaning: Greg (Mr Lestrade, food tech and law) and Mike (Mr Stamford, another chemistry teacher). They would share light banter on the staff sofa and every Friday night, they'd go for a pint at The Rose and Crown down the road to watch the game. They weren't particularly close and never met up on the weekends, but John enjoyed their company all the same, and equally, they enjoyed his.

That mysterious Holmes boy frequently missed school and his excuse was always "bored". Whenever Holmes was actually in school, he rarely looked up from his thick science textbooks -that even Mr. Watson struggled with- that he seemed to glide through with absolute ease. John never saw the feline boy around the school grounds -as if he just vanished as soon as he walked out the lab. Hell, John didn't even know what other subjects he took, and Greg and Mike didn't know either; not that they ever really spoke of him, save occasional comments of concern. Holmes only ever spoke when answering his name in the register or a witty retort to a snide remark made by a fellow pupil, such as Anderson or Donovan. The boy barely seemed to exist outside of his books and it was certainly worrying.

One day, just as the lesson had finished, Sally Donovan rushed out the classroom and 'accidentally' knocked the boy's big textbook off of the bench. Holmes sighed and swooped down -not _un_graceful, but the boy hadn't quite grasped control over his gangly limbs yet- and thrust it into his smooth leather satchel.

"I'm sorry about them, Holmes. You really don't deserve any of that." John muttered quietly, concern clearly present in his tired blue eyes that were locked with the boy's through the veil of curls.

Holmes shrugged dismissively, "I'm smarter than them. I don't care what they think." And John almost believed him.

Sherlock walked pensively towards the door, hesitating briefly before turning back to Mr. Watson, "But, thanks," He sounded awkward and a little bit confused, lowering his voice, "John."


	2. Late November, Thursday, 1PM

**Hey, this chapter has some slightly darker themes to it, I know. It's a one-off, really. The rest of the story will be considerably lighter (although I will, of course, often mention the darker side of Sherlock), but I wanted to show their weaknesses from very early on. After this chapter, Sherlock shall immediately return to his snide and smirk-y character, but I just really wanted to establish just how fundamentally weak he was from the start.**

**Sorry, I hope it doesn't put you off! Please don't give up on the story immediately! There is a lot to come!**

**I'll try to update soon, definitely a new chapter by Thursday!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>It was Thursday; Sherlock's first day back at school all week (not that his family knew -or cared- about that). For all they knew, he'd been to school every day since the beginning of term, but if they had taken the to time to read the letters sent home or picked up any of the calls -Mother had Caller ID and did not have time for anything even vaguely relating to Sherlock- they would have realized that from September to late November, Sherlock had only attended school 25 times.<p>

Sherlock's depression had hit an all-time-low. He'd stay awake for days on end and then sleep until he thought he'd finally reached death. His Father and Mother would wake up as the sun rose and would return as it set, so they were completely unaware of his activities -or lack of them. His brother, Mycroft, was currently climbing his way up the political ladder, _very_ successfully, and had seemingly forgotten about his younger.

Sherlock didn't eat unless he was about to pass out (often not even then), food had no appeal to him so he didn't waste time with it. But the less he ate, the more sickening the notion of actually _devouring _became and the cycle just got worse.

Sometimes Sherlock didn't even have the willpower to read; he'd slam his fits into a thick textbook repeatedly until his hands were bruised and the book bashed in with small splotches of blood seeping through the pages. Then Sherlock would lie there, for an immeasurable amount of time, shaking, sobbing, retching or, worst of all, completely paralyzed.

He would often wonder why he bothered with being clever; all it did was bring him into this cycle of self-destruction and torture. Of course, he adored being better than everyone else, he lived off the thrill of _knowing_ and the pure ecstasy of being right made him happy, but only to an extent. He was young and _vulnerable,_ and he despised himself so much for it. He couldn't stop the self-hatred that boiled his core into a roaring mass of lava that fueled his incredible passion for knowledge, burning his heart as it went. But occasionally, Sherlock needed a break for his staggering intellect, and thus he began to "dabble" in heroin.

Sherlock had been clean since Monday, and luckily his habit wasn't so far out of control that he was suffering withdrawal, so a cigarette out of an abandoned classroom window would calm his nerves. He stared out over the unattractive 1960's building and up into the sky, watching the clouds darken and a light drizzle begin. He stubbed his cigarette out on the window sill and then hurled it as far as he could, watching it plummet to it's fate before closing the window and pulling the blinds down so he could sulk in the darkness.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, the door was shoved open and Sherlock spun to see the silhouette of John Watson enter the rather dark room, oblivious of his presence, and collapsed onto a chair, dropping his face into his hands and sighing in defeat. Sherlock watched in silence for a while, interested, as his eyes adjusted to the figure that slowly rocked back and forth, murmuring something about being "fucking pathetic".<p>

"If you think that you and your life are so 'fucking pathetic', why don't you go back to university and complete your training as a doctor?" Sherlock said uninspiringly.

John's head shot up instantly, scanning the room for the person who'd been _spying_ on him. His eyes locked onto the gaunt boy leaning into the corner of the wall, blending into the darkness; he could only make out, from a sliver of muggy daylight, tall, spidery limbs, a tangle of curly hair and wild, manic eyes that sliced through the darkness. But he recognized the voice and remark instantly, knowing exactly who it was.

"Ah, Sherlock… Er, how did yo- No, forget that. Why are you here? You should be at lunch. Why don't you get going…" John spewed nervously, he hadn't expected anyone to be in here and he was deeply embarrassed that someone knew just how pathetic he was; he hadn't even told Sarah to just what extend he hated himself.

Sherlock silently pulled up the blinds up so he could get a better look at the man: he was wearing a large beige knitted jumper and well worn black trousers, his hair was messy, his cheeks pink with embarrassment and he looked very tired. John hissed at the light and shielded his eyes before saying again "Sherlock, go to lunch." His attempt at dominance was feeble and he looked on the verge of begging.

"No, John. I got here before you so this is now my classroom. Besides, I'm not hungry." Sherlock stated calmly with his arms crossed and a disapproving look. John gasped as he got his first proper look at the boy in weeks. Sherlock had lost a _lot _of weight; his once-well-fitted suit now hung loosely, his thighs had a painfully large gap between them, his arms looked as breakable as twigs, those cheekbones were even more prominent, the skin around his chin threatened to tear, his complexion was so pale and waxy that John easily compared him to a corpse, the whites of his eyes were now red and sore, his pupils large and hollow, his focus glassy and distant and John almost cried at the raw desolation of the young man.

"Oh my Go- Sherlock, what happened to you? When did you last eat?" John stuttered, mouth gaping and one hand slightly outstretched, as if trying to grasp the boy, but as soon as Sherlock looked at it questioningly, he dropped it and coughed awkwardly.

"It isn't relevant." Sherlock dismissed, tossing his gaze to the side. Although he had desperately wanted someone to help him, now that he was finally noticed by someone and all attention was on _him, _he felt very uncomfortable indeed.

"Sherlock Holmes, it is _extremely_ relevant! How long ago?" John demanded, all uncertainty had disappeared from his voice and he sounded very much like a brave soldier or a _ normal_ mother.

Sherlock locked his eyes with his teacher's and straightened his posture in an attempt to intimidate the short man away, "I cannot remember." Sherlock half-spat, half-shamefully-admitted.

John saw a flash of despair in the boy's eyes, so his softened his glare and spoke pleadingly, "Sherlock," he sighed, "please eat something."

"I am not hungry, John. I have already told you this." Sherlock stated emotionlessly, staring cold and blank into John's eyes. He really was a brilliant actor when he wanted to be, but he genuinely was confused at why John was making such a big deal over a little weight loss. He obviously hadn't noticed the tell-tale signs of heroin; Sherlock hadn't expected him too.

John shook his head and rummaged through his satchel, proceeding to remove a squashed sandwich wrapped messily in cling-film and held it out in offering, "Please."

"I cannot keep down carbohydrates." Sherlock said confidently, but John noticed a tiny flicker of shame in his eyes. Sherlock quickly broke his gaze from the worried man stood only a few feet away, and stuffed his purple-blue-green painted hands deep into his pockets.

John swallowed loudly; he did not know Sherlock at all -they had only spoken briefly before and always on work related matters- but John had completely forgotten how he was expected to act, professionally, in shock at just how _ill _the boy was. John's medical side instantly kicked in; he couldn't just _ignore _Sherlock's serious health troubles. But there was something else, something even more serious and John couldn't quite put his finger on it…

They stood there in silence for a minute or so, John was mortified, holding back the urge to break his professional boundaries and shove food down Sherlock's throat and _force_ him to gain weight, he also desperately wanted to take the boy's vitals and check him for any mysterious scars, cuts, bruises or abrasions that could give a vague insight as to why the boy was as he was. Sherlock stared back, his expression unreadable and deceptively calm, but his head was battling to remain conscious.

The bell rang and Sherlock ran from the room before John could stop him, scratching the inner side of his left forearm nervously.


	3. Late November, Friday, 12:40PM

Sarah sat across from John on a worn-down beige armchair, her murky blonde hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail and she was still wearing blue scrubs. She smiled cheerfully, "How was your day?"

John was staring straight past his girlfriend, sipping his tea -oblivious to the fact that it was burning his throat. His thoughts were otherwise occupied with Sherlock Holmes. His encounter earlier that day had really hit him hard; for the last lesson that day, he had just thrown a test upon the unsuspecting Year Tens because he couldn't bring himself to deal with human contact.

He could not put into words just how concerned he was over Sherlock's health. He was a completely helpless bystander, watching a young man (and a brilliant one at that) destroy his life. John could not even begin to fathom why Sherlock was doing this in the first place. John didn't want anything from Sherlock, not even his gratitude; all he wanted was for Sherlock to recover from whatever was ailing him so terribly.

John was quickly torn from his thoughts as Sarah (who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere) was crouching before his chair, thumbing his knee and whispering, "Come to bed, John." A playful smile flickering on the edges of her lips, revealing a few murky white teeth. Sarah was very attractive; she was slightly taller than John, she had graceful curves while remaining slim, she had delicate facial features and a kind heart. She was one of those women who spoke thoughtfully and smiled elegantly in such a manner that people were drawn to her like a magnet. Sarah really was wonderful, but John wasn't in the mood.

Not wanting to be rude, he briefly looked into her eyes with an apologetic smile before returning to staring out the dark window behind her where clear raindrops slowly rolled down and faint pattering could be heard on the flat balcony.

She ignored his subtle declination, although she did notice it, and placed a soft hand on his cheek, leaning in. John stopped her with a hand to the chest and a firm voice, "No, Sarah." During this dismissal, John didn't even remove his gaze from the swaying trees, nor did he show any remorse or even hint an explanation. She huffed angrily and stalked off for a shower.

Finally, John acknowledge the teacup burning into his left palm and put it beside him, exhaling softly. John rested his uneasy head against his shoulder and drifted off to sleep in the soft light.

* * *

><p>"Thank you, class. Have a good lunch." John smiled and he was barely noticed as the students were packing away noisily, "Oh, and Sherlock? Could I see you for a minute?"<p>

Sherlock raised his heavy head inquisitively, praying that John didn't want to have a "talk" with him about his eating. Worse still, that he had noticed the tiny purple pinpricks on his left arm and was forewarning Sherlock of the police's coming questioning. Sherlock pretended not to swallow nervously as waited for the rest of the pupils to disperse into the corridors.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock pretended to be bored, sighing and crossing his arms theatrically. In hope of intimidating the shorter man, he locked his vacant eyes with John and glared menacingly.

"Please, call me Mr Watson, Sherlock." John tutted disapprovingly, turning his face briefly towards the door to avoid the penetrating eyes. Sherlock looked just as sick as the day before and the more disingenuous he was, the sadder he looked and more affected John became. _Poor lad._

"No." Sherlock stated as stubbornly as an angry little child.

John shook his head in disbelief, "Sherlock, I am your teacher and I expect you to treat me as one."

"Fine; I'll call you Mr Watson and you shall call me Sir or Mr Holmes." He deadpanned, looking completely serious; as if what he had just demanded was reasonable!

"Sherlock! No, I am your teacher and you will call me Mr Watson as a sign of respect! I get to call you Sherlock if I want to, and if want to complain, then, by all means do. I suggest you go to the headmaster. See what he has to say about all this." John huffed. Honestly, this boy was so difficult. If they could end this argument now, John could get onto what he had intended to do in the first place.

"My brother is older and_ far_ more important than you are or ever will be, and I still call him by his first name. I call anyone, that I wish to, by their first name and you are no exception. What makes you think that you're _special?"_ Sherlock spat at John, feigning disgust. _Surely that would shut the man up?_

"I am not impressed with your behavior, Sherlock. You can call me John, but not in front of the other students, okay?" John exhaled defeatedly and tried to refrain from mirroring the smirk growing rapidly on the pale boy's face. He failed miserably.

A moment of awkward silence passed. "I assume you have a reason for calling me back, and I know for a fact that it would never be about any complaints with my work. So tell me, _John," _his proud smirk returning, "why am I here?"

"I brought you porridge." John said, hurling a sachet of oats at the boy playfully, before remembering that he was a teacher and he was already crossing the conventional (and possibly ethical) boundaries of a healthy student-teacher relationship. He was getting dangerously close to _flirting_ with the boy that he had no romantic attachments to whatsover and was his bloody student! '_Christ sake, John! You're a professional! Pull yourself together!_

Sherlock picked up the sachet curiously, turning it over in his hands, trying not to grin. "Er, thanks John. Am I expected to eat a bag of oats, or am I meant to do something to it…?" He said cautiously.

"Yeah, well, I thought pouring milk over you would be a little innapro-" John's words cut off, his face torn in horror. _Hey Johnny boy, what was that about _not_ flirting with your students? _To avoid saying anything more that could risk him being accused of sexual harassment, he handed the boy (who was trying_ very_ very hard not to giggle) a small beaker of milk. "Er, you know where the bunsen burners are and the instructions are on the sachet… I should probably head off…"

"No, John. Stay." Sherlock purred, this was far too amusing for him to dare lose a second.

"I'm breaking a lot of rules just doing this, Sherlock. My boss really wouldn't be impressed. You really can't expect me to risk my job just to watch you eat _porridge._" John raised his voice incredulously and twisted his head to the side.

Sherlock put on his best "sad face" and tried to look as thin as possible, purposely throwing a long and obvious glance over to the bin, hinting that he'd only throw the food away if John left.

John sighed, defeated. "Fine, fine. I'll stay until you finish it."

Sherlock beamed up at him, "_Thank_you, John."

The pair spent the next twenty minutes making Sherlock's porridge and talking a little too excitedly; not that either of them noticed, and they were equally oblivious to just how often they were grinning. They spoke about everything from Sherlock's other subjects (Maths, Biology, Psychology and, surprisingly, Art) to the other teachers, "I would not be surprised if Moriarty is a psychopath. He definitely has the strength to pull a trigger mercilessly and he, without a doubt, is smart enough to get off scot-free. He exhibits many traits that I have observed in serial killers and arsonists. I don't think he's safe." Sherlock had warned, sucking on his porridge.

Finally, Sherlock started to talk about his deductions and future plans to work as some type of detective. He makes some small, offhand deductions of the room around them but refused to explain any of them. "If I were to tell you my methods, you would see that although I am a genius, my 'powers' are quite explicable and boring." John had begged, to which Sherlock merely said, "Another time, _Mr Watson, _as you clearly have someone -a teacher, no doubt a chemistry one, so probably Mr Stamford- to see." John nodded, remembering that he had to discuss exams, urgently, with Mike. However, how Sherlock had known this was beyond him.

"Yeah, I do have to talk to him, actually. Tomorrow, I'm bringing you more porridge. And I expect you to explain everything to me then." John stood up and walked towards the door.

"Tomorrow is Saturday, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes, scraping out the last bits of porridge caked to the inside of the beaker.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot… See you on Monday, Sherlock. And don't you dare forget to eat." John called back as he strode confidently out the lab, a big smile plastered across his face.


	4. Late November, MondayTuesday

**Oh dear God, this has taken unbelievably long, I am so so so sorry!  
><strong>**Rest assured, I will assume a regular posting habit from now onwards and I have the next few chapters already planned out!  
><strong>**By the way, I feel like I should tell you that this shall not be a smutty fic in the least. It is going to be a platonic-and-yet-not-quite-so-platonic-but-still-very-platonic story instead, about their weird relationship and love.**

**But, trust that Little Miss Sarah Sawyer is soon to disappear. I don't like _women_ in my stories (although I am obviously a woman myself).**

**Sorry again! And enjoy! I hope to update very soon!**

* * *

><p>John's weekend passed uneventfully. It was the same familiar weekend routine that he's had for the past two years: wake up -next to Sarah-, sneak off into the kitchen for tea before Sarah wakes up, watch medical programs like 'A&amp;E' and 'Sun, Sea, A&amp;E' before she comes down, drink tea with Sarah, watch TV with Sarah, go out for a walk alone, go for lunch with Sarah, leave Sarah to go and read medical textbooks in the library, come home and have dinner with Sarah and then maybe sleep together. Repeat. It was predictable and John had always thought it was a waste of time. Surely these were supposed to be the best years of his life? His sparkling youth with endless possibility of travel and adventure? But he was spending his hating his job and trying to live a life that he's already given up on. <em>John, you can't be a doctor now. You've ruined that, remember? <em> He could feel his life slipping between his fingers and there was nothing he could do to stop it; he was _dying._

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes' weekend passed uneventfully. His parents were not at work, so he hid in his room doing experiments on a rat that he found in the gutter the day before. By the end of the afternoon, it was royally spoiled: eyes gouged out, hair burnt in some patches and skin a shocking red in others, ears peeled open and the blood drained out and kept in a beaker by his window. After such mutating, he pulled out a book and read until he finished it. Sherlock was determined to not do heroin, and instead he passed out on his bed at four in the morning. Sunday was not too dissimilar. Sherlock was <em>bored.<em> He needed to go out and thrive in the city; but the city was boring. There were too many unfaithful partners and not enough serial killers; children with diabetes and drug users but _no one interesting._ He had tried in the past to get in-touch with the police force and Scotland Yard, but why would they listen to a self-righteous 18-year-old? Of course they could recognize his level of intelligence in seconds and they knew that they needed him, but it was a matter of pride. And when Sherlock had snuck into crime scenes DI Gregson would quickly throw him into a cell for the night. Of course, this did little to stop further attempts, but it did mean that he rarely ever got to solve anything.

* * *

><p>Monday morning couldn't come too soon; even if it was dull, it was something to do and John had a project to feed up this boy. He had a plan of how long it would take to move onto harder foods like Supernoodles and hopefully one day a sandwich. This was all a long way off, but John was sure that by February, Sherlock would definitely be onto proper meals and with comfort.<p>

The morning lessons were full of hyperactive Year Sevens and Nines. One boy had burnt open the tube to the gas supply of a bunsen burner, which had caused something of a drama, but an unwelcome one at that as it reflected somewhat badly upon Mr Watson.

As soon as lunch came, John was glad to see the shadow of someone in Sherlock and his laboratory. John walked in and proclaimed, "I have your p-" and was cut short by the sight of Mr Moriarty experimenting with chemicals that John didn't recognize.

"Hel_lo_, Mr Watson." Mr Moriarty slurred with a sly smile, removing his safety goggles.

"John, please. Er, sorry for interrupting your-" John hurried; this was awkward and completely unexpected.

"Research." Mr Moriarty finished with a politician's smile.

"Yes, er, research. Well, I'll just be off then." John mumbled, turning to leave.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you leave. Stay, _John_." Moriarty's face was twisted into a worried and guilty expression, his voice high-pitched and urgent but contradicted by a show of teeth and grin.

"No, no, it's fine Mr Moriarty-" John reassured.

"Jim." Moriarty corrected with a soft smile.

"Yes, Jim." John cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing, "I have, er, places to be anyway."

"Lovely to see you, John!" Moriarty grinned and waved enthusiastically.

John scuttled away and spent the rest of his lunch -after a short fruitless search through the other labs- in the staff-room. And when it came to his lesson with Sherlock in the afternoon, the boy was nowhere to be seen. John went home disappointed and worried, wringing his hands, _What if Sherlock isn't eating?_

* * *

><p>Once again, on Tuesday, John was disappointed to see that Sherlock wasn't in school. Every so often in his lessons, John would cast a hopeful look at Sherlock's place -hoping that magically he had appeared- and once or twice he glanced at the door, just try and to catch a grand entrance. But of course, no one appeared and the only person who entered was the desk lady asking about where Sherlock Holmes was as he hadn't phoned in about his absence, and nor was he picking up his house phone. John's anxieties only increased.<p>

* * *

><p>Miles away, Sherlock Holmes was collapsed over a toilet bowl with his hair greasy and the tips dipped in vomit, face slightly green and a fresh pin-prick on his left forearm. That morning, Sherlock had already decided that he wasn't ready for school yet and had chosen the option of a piece of toast to keep him awake, a dash of heroin and he could go out to increase his homeless network which was growing at a steady rate.<p>

As bodies tend to disagree and fail after such abuse, his body was shocked by the food and when the heroin entered his system after a week of abstinence, he chucked up everything with far too much stomach acid to be healthy; and thus, he lay crouched in ripping agony spewing bloody acid every few minutes.

**God, that was so much shorter than I had expected! Well, the next one is going to be a big one and have lots of John and Sherlock in, so don't fret!**


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